


finn class

by georgbuechner



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sailing, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgbuechner/pseuds/georgbuechner
Summary: Hux casts a hopeful glance towards the water, and Phas snorts at him.“You know you’d just get rescued by some Neanderthal from the yacht club.”“You say that like it’s a bad thing. One last good fuck before finals, that’ll do me nicely.”“You don’t really want to get fucked by a sailor,” Phas says, fond. “You’re just drawn to the irony of it.”“And the daddy issues,” Hux points out. “Don’t forget the daddy issues.”
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 9
Kudos: 93





	finn class

**Author's Note:**

> probably a missed opportunity for a stormpilot fic here, but oh well 
> 
> like hux, i know next to nothing about sailing, so feel free to flag up any glaring errors! i'll get you started: henley almost definitely doesn't host any real-life sailing regattas, but it does host a rowing regatta every year, hence hux's ire.

Hux doesn’t even _like_ sailing. 

It’s one of his many failings, in the eyes of his father. Brendol was all set to trial for the Olympics, before an injury knocked him out of the running, quite literally. That might’ve put some people off, but not Brendol Hux. He’s more obsessed with it now than when he was actually _doing_ it. Prick. 

Anyway. Hux hates sailing. 

It’s not just because of his father, either. (Inasmuch as anything in his life isn’t because of his father.) He hates how _complicated_ it is. Brendol tried to teach him all the inane terminology, all the ports and starboards and keels and what have you, but Hux refused to learn. Tragically, he remembers where the boom and mast are, and what the main sheet is, but he refuses to recall even that basic information unless he absolutely has to. Which he doesn’t, because he doesn’t sail. Give him rowing any day. 

Unfortunately, he and his father are in a particularly rough patch at the moment, and Hux, rapidly approaching finals, has some sense that he might need a few of Brendol’s connections if he’s to make a go of it. He doesn’t like that, doesn’t think the whole _I can get you a job at this company because the CEO is an old friend from school and you played with his children that summer when you were five, don’t you remember?_ thing is beneficial to society. But he’d probably get disinherited if he didn’t go down the path Brendol’s been planning since he was born. It’s bad enough that he hates sailing boats. _Dinghies_. Awful little things. Who’d want to sit in a glorified washing-up bowl and throw themself around trying not to capsize? 

“You know, I think you might just be beating me on resting murder face, today,” says a voice behind him. It’s Phasma, thank God, coming to join him on the balcony overlooking the start/finish line, a pair of champagne glasses in her hands. Hux takes his with a quiet thanks. She doesn’t hug him – they only resort to that in dire circumstances – but she does knock her shoulder gently into his, once she’s come to rest in the same position as him, hands flat on the railing keeping them both from drowning in the murky waters of the Thames. Hux wouldn’t say no, at this stage. “Remind me why you’re torturing yourself with this?” 

“For him, obviously,” Hux says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He can pinpoint his father’s exact location even through the elaborate glass doors separating the balcony from the main reception room; the concept of an _inside voice_ has yet to reach Brendol. “Everybody’s here. I have to make the effort occasionally, Phas.” 

“And it’s Henley, so you couldn’t exactly claim distance,” Phas agrees, nodding sagely. 

“Precisely. That also makes it worse, though. Like they’re trying to spite me, or something.” 

“You realise the world isn’t set against you specifically, don’t you?” 

“I do, but some days seem determined to prove me wrong.” 

“Cheers to that.” They clink their glasses together, and Hux downs his in one, which gets him an eyebrow from Phas. “What? I drank the first one slowly.” 

“Of course you did.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Never. They’ll be coming out, in a minute.” 

“Balls.” Hux casts a hopeful glance towards the water, and Phas snorts at him. 

“You know you’d just get rescued by some Neanderthal from the yacht club.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. One last good fuck before finals, that’ll do me nicely.” 

“You don’t really want to get fucked by a sailor,” Phas says, fond. “You’re just drawn to the irony of it.” 

“And the daddy issues,” Hux points out. “Don’t forget the daddy issues. Oh, speak of the devil.” Brendol’s booming is getting clearer. Sometimes Hux wonders if his voice was naturally that loud, or if he cultivated it by yelling across wind and waves. Probably a mixture of the two. The Huxes have sailed for generations. Suffice to say, the extended family were not thrilled when Hux turned out like this. Some of them are here, but Hux has already done the niceties and the not-so-niceties, and luckily a combination of Phasma’s bulk blocking him from view and his face being turned towards the water saves him, for now. They’ve somehow ended up in an ideal position to watch the races, which Hux is not best pleased by. “How am I supposed to maintain the whole _see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil_ thing now?” he murmurs to Phas. 

“Fake a seizure midway through the first race?” Phas suggests, getting the programme up on her phone. There’s something delightfully incongruous about it at Henley, which is determined to progress no further than 1927, in all possible senses. “Finns are up first.” Hux groans; the Finn always takes so _long_. “I know, I know. At least it’s not the Clipper.” 

“You could not _pay me_ to interact with _any aspect of the Clipper_.” Brendol’s glued to it every year, the git.

“They’re getting it over and done with,” Phas says, sympathetic. She doesn’t loathe sailing quite as much as Hux, but she still has a healthy amount of hatred for it. Much prefers rugby. Plays for the Blues, and everything. “He can’t complain if you watch the first race and then nip to the loo, surely.” 

“Clearly you aren’t familiar with good old Bren,” Hux mutters darkly. That’s what his father’s old friends from school call him. _Good old Bren._ Only one of the adjectives is accurate, in Hux’s opinion. The balcony’s filling up behind them, now, so they leave off the talking. They can always text each other their thoughts. Hux’s phone is safe in the inside breast pocket of his suit, which, he has to admit, he feels rather sharp in. He might as well look good while he’s being tortured, hmm? 

“Lot of Americans, this year,” Phas says, showing Hux the list of sailors. All men, of course. The only good thing sailing has going for it is that it’s technically gender-neutral, but Finns are big boats, and women are generally discouraged from being big. 

“Any Finns?” Hux tries, and Phas rolls her eyes at him. 

“No, but one of them’s husband is called Finn, so that’s nice for him, I suppose.” 

“They’ve probably heard all the puns already.” Hux blinks at Phas. “Wait, husband?” 

“Yep. You haven’t heard of Poe Dameron?” 

“You know I make a point of forgetting all their names, dear.” 

Phas snorts. “Of course. He’s one of the Americans, as you could probably tell from the name. Second-favourite, I think.” 

“Who’s first?” Hux asks, and then the starting pistol (probably literally from 1927) goes off, and he reluctantly turns his eyes to the water. 

It’s a lovely day, he’ll give them that. Unseasonably warm for England, so clear and bright that Hux has to put his sunglasses on to shield his eyes against the glare from the water. He has no idea how the sailors are managing to see anything, even with their stupid high-tech glasses; two of them have just narrowly avoided a collision, a Slovenian and a Kiwi, judging by the insignia on their sails. Hux’s eye moves from them to the boats that are actually doing well: two are a few boat-lengths in front already, a hair’s-breadth between them. But only for a few moments at a time, of course, because sailing is a stupid sport where you have to constantly zigzag to catch the best angle on the wind and minimise the push of the water. Honestly. Every sport is a fight, ultimately, even the non-contact ones, but they could’ve made it a little easier for themselves. They’re hanging out of their boats, these idiots, only the little toestrap keeping them from falling in while they struggle just to keep going. Hux’s core aches just looking at them. 

Something else is happening, though, as he watches the two Americans out in front. The boat closer to them, especially. Finn sailors are generally big and heavy, to counteract the force of the sail, but the guy looks tiny from here, somehow keeping control of his boat against the wind and the water. Seems like he’s doing a pretty good job of it too, in Hux’s limited experience. He tacks, rolling smoothly from one side of the boat to the other, mainsheet and tiller switching hands effortlessly, and a sort of sigh goes up from the crowd around Hux. That’s a surprise in itself, considering the level of English reserve they’re steeped in, but what’s more surprising is that _Hux joins in_. He finds, quite suddenly, that he wants this sailor to win. He deserves it, for that level of proficiency. 

“Who are those two?” he asks Phas, pointing. He’s very firmly not looking at her, for fear of being ridiculed for his sudden interest in the sport he hates most in the world. 

“Dameron and Solo,” Phas informs him. “Solo’s closer to us. Oh, not any more.” 

“Solo?” Hux repeats, mustering a small amount of scorn, his eyes glued to the sailor. “Is he not allowed to sail in the team races, or?” 

“Ben Solo,” Phas clarifies. “Golden boy of Team USA, apparently. Comes from a sailing family, I think?”

“Clearly he dealt with that in a different way from me,” Hux says, going for dry and ending up just a bit pathetic. He doesn’t really care, at this stage. He’s not here, on the balcony, surrounded by people who think they’re something because they own land or a title or more money than they could ever spend in a hundred lifetimes. He’s out there, on the water, watching Ben Solo slide through the current like he was made for it. 

He’s so – Hux doesn’t even know how to describe it. He looks at the other sailors, trying to gauge the difference, but it’s like comparing the flight of an arrow to a paper plane. They’re all doing the same thing, ostensibly, but Solo’s just doing it so much _better_ . It’s like he’s speaking a different language, one far less polished than the British sailor, say, or the Australian, far more natural and organic. He’s not sailing the boat; he’s _part_ of the boat, wholly unified with it. The other sailors, you can see the joins, the cracks where mistakes leak through. Not Solo. Everything just _works_. 

Hux shouldn’t be able to tell from this far away, but he has a feeling Solo might be smiling. 

They’re on their last lap of the course, now. (How did that happen? Hux blinked, and it’s nearly over.) Dameron’s been on Solo’s shoulder for the whole of the race, but now he’s getting tired, it seems; he overestimates the angle on his last swing round and drops back, wasting valuable seconds. It’s such a one-horse race as to be tedious, but Hux is still riveted, frozen in place. His eyes are the only part of him that moves, tracking Solo as he skims across the water. Ironic, that he wishes he remembered more about this race, now. He has a vague recollection that it ends in a straight run downwind, a mad dash for the finish line. “Come on,” he finds himself muttering under his breath, through gritted teeth. “Come on, you beauty. Don’t fuck it up now.” 

Solo doesn’t, of course. It’s the easiest thing in the world, whispering over the invisible line between the two motorboats. It seems like it takes him a moment to realise himself, he’s that focused. And then he picks up on the cheering, his head turning towards the balcony, and – _God_ , that smile. Hux would do a lot of things, to make this total stranger smile like that. He thinks it’s directed at him, for one happy, completely ridiculous moment, until he hears a particularly loud whoop away to his left. There’s a group of people at the railing who must be Solo’s family; they’re glowing with pride, clapping and cheering for him in that unselfconscious American way. Solo gives them a two-fingered salute, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. Hux’s chest twinges, a little. 

“Earth to Hux.” Hux jumps, turns to scowl at Phas. “Whatever happened to hating sailing, hmm?” 

“I still hate sailing.”

  
  
“Oh, really? Seemed like you were glued to the race, just now.” 

“I was worried that some of them might drown,” Hux says, airy. 

“Of course you were. He’s got a couple more races, if you’re interested, but nothing after the lunchtime break. I expect they’ll come up and mingle.” Hux’s heart skips a beat at the prospect, and Phas smirks at him like she can see it in his face. “Seems you might get saved by a Neanderthal from a yacht club, after all.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Hux says, but there’s absolutely no heat behind it whatsoever. 

* * *

Phas is right, as usual: Solo’s in the next three races, winning all of them easily, and then he and the other sailors who aren’t competing in the afternoon session come up to the reception area for some well-deserved refreshment. Hux has snagged his father’s attention to ask him about – well, you can guess. 

“Sailing family,” Brendol says, stroking his beard with a kind of disgruntled curiosity in his eye. Hux can practically see the gears turning in his head: _disappointment son finally interested in life’s passion. Maybe disappointment son become son to be proud of?_ No such luck, Bren. “His grandfather was Anakin Skywalker.” 

“The one who had the accident?” 

Brendol grunts in confirmation. “Beat the record for the Clipper, though.” Which naturally makes it worth it, in Hux’s father’s eyes. “His uncle was good too, won a few golds at the Olympics. His mother, Leia Organa, she sailed at college, I think. Didn’t end up pursuing it, but she’s one of the most powerful Democrats in the senate, so it doesn’t look like it did her much harm.”

Democrat? Interesting. Brendol spots Hux’s eyebrows raising, and coughs out a wet laugh. He can be perceptive. Sometimes. “I was surprised too. She married a smuggler, though, so he must have infested her with socialism and sentimentality, I suppose.” 

_Please don’t let Solo be a Republican._ “A smuggler?” 

“Mm. Old-fashioned, on a boat.” Hux thinks back to Solo’s style, how… _unpolished_ it was. Like he was just doing what felt right, no thought involved. Hux looks over at the gaggle of people around Solo (they’re not obscuring him, he’s too tall for that), searching for somebody who looks out of place. It’s hard – Solo’s father has trained himself well, he almost passes for an aristocrat. But not quite. 

Not that that’s a bad thing. He still looks like the kind of person Hux would want to talk to, which is more than can be said for ninety percent of the people at this godawful event, including the man standing next to him. He’s got a kind face, Solo Senior. His eyes are glinting with something that might be tears as he hugs his son, clapping him on the shoulder. Hux’s chest hurts again. Must be his heartburn acting up. 

“He’ll go far.” Hux jumps; he had forgotten his father was there, too busy watching somebody else’s. “Not that you care, I suppose.” 

“Of course not,” Hux agrees, eyes sliding over to Solo Junior, laughing at something an older woman is saying to him. That must be his mother. God, she’s a lot smaller than him. She must be formidable, if what Brendol said about her political career is true. “I hate sailing, you know that.” 

“Of course.” Something about Brendol’s tone is pricking Hux’s suspicion, so he looks back at him, reluctantly, and squints. If his father were anyone else, he would say he looks… _mischievous_. “So you wouldn’t want to meet them?” 

“Definitely not,” Hux sniffs, resisting the urge to turn back to watch the extended Solo-Skywalker-whatever the hell clan be all cute and familial with each other. “They’d only want to talk about the races, anyway. I’d die of boredom.” 

“Right, of course,” Brendol says, and then he makes a hand gesture, and – wait, what? 

“Father, _no,_ ” Hux hisses at him, but it’s too late, Brendol’s already gone and done it, the utter _arse_. The mass of Solo’s family is heading their way like some many-limbed beast, and Hux can’t cut and run without making more of a fool of himself than he already has. So he just stands there, a deer in the headlights, while his father greets Leia Organa like an old friend. (Maybe she is? Surely Hux would have had some inane playdate with Solo by now, if so. God, imagine if they’d grown up together. What a nightmare.) 

“And this is my son, Armitage,” Brendol’s saying, smooth as a shark. “Armitage, Senator Leia Organa.” 

“Just Leia is fine,” Leia corrects him, equally smooth but somehow miles less sinister. Maybe that’s just because she’s not related to Hux, though. He shakes her hand, her grip surprisingly firm, and waits for the end. “This is my husband, Han. And my son, Ben.” 

“Nice to meet you, kid,” Han Solo says, shaking Hux’s hand, and Hux makes a similar noise, before he turns to the person he’s been trying not to make eye contact with. 

“Congratulations,” he says, holding out a stiff hand. “Sterling job.” Why does he sound like his father?

“Thanks,” Solo says, easy. His hands are big and broad, rough with scars and callouses, but his grip’s surprisingly gentle. So are his eyes, when Hux works up the courage to meet them. Hux has to remind himself to let go, clearing his throat awkwardly. The corner of Solo’s mouth pulls up. 

“Do you sail, Armitage?” Leia’s asking; Hux doesn’t bother to try and respond, because he knows what’s going to happen. 

“No, my son’s a landlubber,” Brendol says, clapping Hux on the shoulder just a bit too hard. “Never got the knack for it.” 

“I —” Hux starts, expecting to be interrupted, but is surprised to find that everybody in the circle is listening to him. He’s got no idea how that happened; some strange alchemy of Leia’s, perhaps. “I row.” 

“Not quite a landlubber, then,” says Han, giving Hux a wink. “Always struck me as more honest. Just you and the oars, y’know?” Hux hasn’t the heart to correct him. “Not getting the wind to do the work for you.” 

“Get in a Finn and tell me the wind’s doing the work for you, old man,” Solo says, digging his father in the ribs. Hux winces, bracing himself for trouble, but Han just rolls his eyes like a teenager and pulls a conspiratorial kind of face at Hux. Hux blinks, unsure how to respond, and settles on a weak smile. Who _are_ these people? 

“You were magnificent out there,” Brendol pipes up again. “You’ve made the Olympic team, I presume?” 

Solo nods. “Yup. Poe qualified, too.” Hux looks around; spots Dameron talking to — is that Phas? The cheeky bitch. She spots him over Dameron’s shoulder (not hard; he’s small, for a Finn sailor) and gives him a wave. 

“Well, that’ll be nice for him.” Hux looks back at his father, trying to identify the glint in his eyes. He doesn’t need to, as it turns out. Brendol’s explaining himself all on his own. “You know, to play with the big boys.” 

“Poe’s the best Radial sailor I know,” Solo says, and his tone’s mild, but there’s a solidity to the set of his jaw. Hux is torn between his desire for the earth to swallow him whole and his eagerness to watch this play out. “They’re gonna have a hard time catching him.” 

Brendol blinks, confused. “Oh, well. Yes. Radial. Not exactly Finn, is it, my boy?” He claps Solo’s shoulder, then, but Solo doesn’t smile, like Hux was worried he might. Just watches Brendol with those dark eyes of his, a lot harder now, like chips of obsidian. A shiver runs down Hux’s spine, not altogether unpleasant. 

“I don’t know about you folks, but I’m starving,” Han says, cheerful. “Who’s for the buffet?” 

* * *

“This seat taken?” 

Hux startles, looking up from a Guardian article on climate change. He drops his phone into his pocket, guilty, even though Solo seems the least likely person here to call him out on it. (It might have been a different story, if he’d seen one of Hux’s other tabs: a certain sailor’s Wikipedia page.) “No, please,” he says, gesturing to the chair next to him. It’s the closest he could get to a modicum of privacy: tucked away from the main balcony, with absolutely no view of the races. A nice panorama of the uninteresting side of the river, though. 

Solo’s standing in front of the sun, so Hux has to shield his eyes to look up at him, before he takes the empty chair. He’s even big sitting down, the chair comically small for him. Hux is six-one, and not exactly skinny, even if he doesn’t add much to the total weight of the boat, but Solo’s just — huge. Like he was made to different proportions from everybody else. He’s lost his jacket, somewhere, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He must be the only person Hux has met who looks bigger with fewer layers on. 

Hux has a strange urge to climb him like a tree. 

“Not feeling the races?” 

Hux snaps out of his musings on Solo’s size, blinks a few times. “Oh, no, I just —“ Solo’s raising an eyebrow at him. He has strange eyebrows, thick but short, permanently on a surprised angle. A strange face in general, really. “Yes, alright, you caught me. I hate sailing.” 

“Just here for your dad?” Hux nods. “That’s good, though. That you’d put yourself through it for him.” 

“That makes it sound much more noble than it is,” Hux snorts. “I’m just here to avoid being disowned for another two to three years.” 

“Right, right.” There’s a silence, then, but Hux doesn’t feel compelled to fill it. He doesn’t feel compelled to do anything. Solo’s face is so open. He doesn’t try and hide anything; it’s like he wouldn’t even think to. A novel experience, for Hux. 

“I liked watching you, though,” Hux says suddenly, surprising himself as well as Solo. “Out there. You were… astonishing. Really.” 

“Thank you,” Solo says, and Hux couldn’t describe how it’s different from all the thanks he heard him give various people earlier, but it is, definitely. “Are you at – wait a minute, I know this. You guys call it university, right?” 

“Or uni, yeah.” Solo grins like he’s proud of himself for remembering one word; Hux is oddly charmed by that. “To answer your question, though: I’m in third year. Final year, that is.” US colleges only do four-year degrees, he thinks. 

“Which university?” 

“Oxford.” Solo whistles, like Americans do in films. (This may be the longest conversation Hux has ever had with an American.) “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, I promise.” 

“Yeah?” Solo leans forward in his seat, his eyes on Hux’s. It’s intent, but not _intense_ , somehow. Just… soft. “How d’you mean?” 

“Just.” Hux shifts around, changes which leg the other is resting on. Solo’s legs are planted wide, his elbows on his knees, like he’s used to taking up space. Hux doesn’t have the heart to resent him for that. “Everybody’s posturing, a lot of the time. I don’t feel like I’ve made any real friends there. Well, one. But she’s the exception that proves the rule.” 

“Phasma?” Hux looks back at Solo, surprised. “I was talking to her earlier, I’m not psychic. Well,” he adds, wiggling his strange eyebrows in a way that definitely shouldn’t be affecting Hux as much as it is, “not like that, anyway.” 

“Good Lord,” Hux mutters, trying not to smile too much. Solo’s laughing, but it’s not at Hux’s expense. Just like he’s – _delighted_ with him. It’s exactly as lovely as his smile. “I didn’t realise the American arrogance thing was true to quite this extent.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” Solo says, not sounding sorry at all. He’s leaning back again, fingers interlinked behind his head. Hux wants to kiss at the underside of his jaw, lick at the moles dotted around his neck like the opposite of stars. “We’re awful.” 

“So I’m learning.” That silence, again. Hux has never been so comfortable with it in his life, even though his treacherous brain keeps providing him with images of what he’d let Solo do to him. (Everything. Everything is the answer.) 

“What’s your major? Or. Wait, you guys don’t call them that, right?” He’s so _earnest_. It’s hard, looking directly at him. Hard, because it’s so easy.

“No, we don’t, but I know what you mean. PPE. Politics, Philosophy and Economics.” Hux pulls a face, but Solo doesn’t laugh, this time. “It’s what all the major Conservative politicians have done, PPE at Oxford. A handful of colleges, too. They mostly just teach you how to have opinions, and how to argue them. No real love of any of the subjects.” 

“What would you have studied if you’d had the choice?” Hux’s gaze has drifted down to his hands; he pulls it up to Solo’s face again, confused. “Sorry, just. It’s written all over your face, that you didn’t pick it.” 

“Yes, well. Maybe you are psychic, after all.” Hux takes a deep breath, and thinks about it properly in a way he hasn’t let himself do since he was sixteen, at one of the oldest, cruellest schools in the country. “Architecture,” he admits, eventually. “Which I could’ve done at Cambridge. But Huxes always go to Oxford, so.” 

“Huxford,” Solo says, absentmindedly, and Hux laughs, louder than he meant to. “What, nobody’s made that joke before?” 

“Not in the last three hundred years, no,” Hux says, airy, and Solo’s face splits in that grin again. Hux couldn’t see it properly from the balcony, couldn’t make out all the dimples and the crooked teeth. Missing out, in other words. 

“Oh, so not that long, really. Just, you know. More than the entire history of the US.” 

“Not long at all. You’re a baby country, after all.” 

“A baby country of war criminals,” Solo says, mild, and Hux nearly chokes on his wine. Who _is_ this man? Boy, really, he’s younger than Hux, but still. Where did he come from? Why on earth has the universe seen fit to present Hux with him, of all people? And how can he keep him as long as possible? 

“We’re not much better,” Hux points out, once he’s regained the ability to speak. Thank God Solo didn’t try and pound him on the back. Hux would’ve been thrown clear across the room, and also popped a semi. “Taught you everything you know.” 

Solo makes a deep, thoughtful noise. Hux wants to rest his head on his chest while he talks, fall asleep there. He’d be warm, he’d stake his life on it. His hands were warm. “We took it and ran with it, though. In a big way. Have you seen that list of foreign governments the US has tried to overthrow? Fuckin’ awful. What is it?” 

“Nothing,” Hux says, quickly, looking away so he’s no longer staring at Solo with moony eyes. “Just. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, Armitage.” Hux isn’t aware that his face changes, but Solo’s does. “You don’t like being called that.” 

“Not really. It’s – too formal. Stupid, really. It’s fine as a surname, but as a first name… I’ve just never really bonded with it.” 

“What do you want me to call you, then?” Hux is struck by the phrasing of that, how Solo doesn’t say _what do your friends call you,_ or _what do you like to be called,_ or even _what should I call you_. What do you want me to call you. He says it so simply, too, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Maybe it is, with him. 

“Hux,” says Hux. “Just Hux. Please.” 

“Alright, Hux. Let’s try this again, okay?” Solo sticks out a paw, broad and generous. “Hey, it’s good to meet you. I’m Ben.” 

“Hux.” They shake again, and Hux doesn’t try and control the motion of it. Just lets his hand be held and moved. He thinks he’d like to lay his whole self in Ben’s hands. He’d handle him with care. 

Ben doesn’t let go of his hand, once they’ve shaken. Just sets it down in his lap and starts to play with it, tapping at Hux’s knuckles with the pads of his fingers, manipulating the joints and bends. Like he’s testing how it works. _Badly,_ Hux wants to tell him. _Imperfectly. But then, the whole of me does._

_I know,_ Ben’s eyes seem to say, even as they’re talking about the state of the buffet (Hux has far more opinions on food than Ben, who is a rubbish bin when it comes to what he puts in his mouth). _I know_. 

And he doesn’t go away, not when somebody comes looking for him – Dameron, almost unfairly handsome on dry land –, and not when he needs to piss. Hux can tell because he keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, and also because he’s finished his second beer (beer, at Henley. Imagine). “Just go,” he says after fifteen minutes of this, fondly exasperated. “You don’t have to piss yourself just to keep me company.” 

“Really?” Ben asks, and gets up, snorting, when Hux shoves at him. “Alright, alright. Promise you won’t go anywhere?” 

“Promise,” Hux says, his chest flaring up again. “I’ll be right here. Don’t forget to wash your hands.” Ben snorts, and goes, finally. He moves so oddly, Hux thinks, watching his broad back lumber away. Like a bear who just learned to walk. There’s something deeply attractive about it. 

“Are you thinking about how he walks like he’s got a big dick?” Phas asks, slotting neatly into Ben’s seat. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ll scram when he’s back. Just wondering if I was reading that look on your face right.” 

“You weren’t,” Hux says, but his cheeks are getting hot now, so Phas will interpret it as a lie anyway. “Oh, God. He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Have a big dick? No idea. How big were his hands?” 

“ _Big_ ,” Hux groans, and lets his burning face fall into his own hands. “It’s not fair,” he says, muffled. “He has to have a flaw. People like that don’t _exist_. Not in the same physical space as me, at least.” 

“Well, you’ve made it to the age of twenty-one without meeting any,” says Phas, patting him on the back. “It was bound to happen some time, darling. Besides, he does have a flaw. He’s American.” 

“With a healthy dose of disrespect for it.” 

“In that case you’re fucked, I’m afraid. Hopefully literally. Make sure you’ve got enough lube, won’t you? I don’t want to have to batter him because he’s split you in half.” 

“He wouldn’t do that,” Hux says, finally sitting up straight (ha) again. “Well,” he adds, considering the size of Ben’s hands, the size of _Ben_ , in general. “Not on purpose, at least.” 

“He does seem sweet,” Phas agrees, thoughtful. “Isn’t he nineteen? Just a baby. Maybe we should be worried about _you_ breaking _him_.” 

“He can hold his own,” Hux says, eyes on the door to the men’s. “He’s… I don’t know. It’s like there’s a – a centre to him. Something he doesn’t let most people see.” 

“Let’s hope you’re one of the chosen few, then.” Phas clinks her glass against his, and disappears into thin air, it feels like. Or maybe it’s just that Ben reappears from the toilets, and all of a sudden Hux can’t concentrate on anything but the pair of moles at the crest of his left eyebrow, the lock of hair that doesn’t quite sit with the rest. How his dark eyes dart around, and then settle on Hux, and just – stop. Like they’ve found a place to rest. 

Hux knows the feeling. 

Fuck. 

But then again – it might not be such a bad thing. 

“Hey,” Ben says, when he’s back in his chair, like he’s been gone longer than three minutes. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, eminently kissable. “Did I miss anything?” 

“No,” Hux says, and feels his smile light up his whole face. “Nothing important, anyway. Do you want another drink?”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> finn sailing  
> the clipper  
> the blues (in this case)  
> 


End file.
